Page 19

19 | When It Rains, It Pours SASHA

Though I do not get to hang out at Monster’s Ball with Celeste, we do get to walk two blocks toward home together afterward. The moon is giant, and I can’t stop talking about it. I have always loved the night sky.

I know, because of a clickbait article I read this morning, “What’s in the Stars for You,” it is called the hunter’s moon. Bart insists that it’s following us and, bolstered by the magic of being out after dark, Nettie and Henry are goofy and content enough to play along. The kids skip ahead awash in moonbeams, a xylophone of giggles.

“I can’t believe you got cotton candy duty!” Celeste says. Like she thinks it sucks, but is also a little funny.

“I actually am cotton candy now. I have become one with the fluff.”

“And I can’t believe Demon Dad signed up too! What are the odds?”

“Oh, he wasn’t signed up.” I shake my head.

“Wait, what?” She stops walking and faces me, so I stop too.

“No, he just offered to help,” I say, then realize I have precious information. I raise my hands over my head, purse my lips. “Guess who is the infamous cotton candy dad from last year?!”

Celeste’s mouth drops open. “No way! The one who dumped that bin of sugar on that fourth-grade dad? That was him ? I can’t believe it!”

“Right? Crazy. I kind of thought he was an urban legend.”

We resume walking. Up ahead, the kids have stopped to wait for us before they cross the street. I am filled up, and almost choked up, as I watch them, dancing in circles in a luminous spotlight. So pumped to be out at night. Childhood abandon. I love my friend. I love my kids. In many ways, I like my life. If only I could get this job—maybe I could even afford to relax and enjoy it a little more. Maybe there would be room for more.

“That was kind of nice of Demon Dad to help though,” Celeste is saying, as I snap back to attention. “Especially after last year’s debacle.”

“Sort of.” I toggle my head. “I think he was triggered by my ineptitude.”

Celeste raises an eyebrow at me, which I act like I don’t notice. “Maybe,” she says, the contours of her skeptical expression emphasized by shadow. I can’t pretend away the moment when I wanted to jump his bones tonight, but I have already rationalized it nicely: I am starved for attention, sex-deprived. What wouldn’t get my motor running?

“Jesus,” says Celeste. “Why is he so damn familiar to me?”

“I don’t know. He wasn’t to me. And he says we actually met years ago.”

“It’s driving me nuts!”

I shrug. “Maybe he made you a cotton candy last year?”

“I do like cotton candy.” She nods. “That must be it.”

On Sunday morning, when I tell the kids about my upcoming trip, they’re sitting on the floor playing a memory game in which they must pair adorable forest animals. Bart wears only dinosaur underwear (his favorite outfit). Nettie is in a nightgown and, inexplicably, nylon gym shorts. Both have full bedhead.

“Squirrel,” says Nettie, examining the board. “And… ugh! That chipmunk again. Damn you, chipmunk!”

She shakes a fist in the air. Bart cracks up like she’s Sarah Silverman doing a set. He jumps up, arms in the air. “Go away, chippy!”

I sit down on the couch. “Hey, guys, can you pause your game for a sec?” After I ask three more times, they finally stop and look at me expectantly. I am not sure how they’ll react.

I explain. Work trip. Three nights. Turks and Caicos.

They have some questions and I supply answers: Yes, that’s a place with beaches. No, I cannot bring whole coconuts back. Yes, I can bring home coconut candy.

“Wait,” says Nettie. “So, we’re going to sleep over at Henry’s house for the whole time?”

I nod, holding my breath as I watch the information settle in her brain. Bart watches her too, to determine how he should react.

“Yes!” she celebrates, jumping up and dancing in a circle. She is getting older. All gangly arms and legs.

“Yes!” Bart mimics, also dancing around, his body still pillowy in places where hers is long.

“I’m so glad you guys are excited.” I really am. It alleviates some of the stress.

Nettie stops and looks at me like I’m being absurd. “Of course we are, Mom! We get to sleep at our best friend’s house. Right, Bart?”

“Right!”

“And anyway, Mom.” She walks over to where I’m sitting and places a hand on my arm. “You deserve this.”

I will never adjust to how she ping-pongs between forty-five and eight years old. Celeste calls her “our old soul.” I don’t know where she has learned this, but I look away as my eyes flood with tears.

“Fox,” says Bart, who has settled back down to play the game. “And… chipmunk! Damn you, chipmunk!” I’m pretty sure he has picked the chipmunk on purpose this time. But he’s achieved the desired effect. Both kids crack up again.

I spend the rest of the week, when they’re back in school, coordinating the video shoot. As the producer, I’ll be responsible for organizing all of the elements in advance—and arranging contingencies—and then, during the actual trip, guiding the crew as they capture behind-the-scenes footage of both the property and the still photo shoot, as it’s happening. Very meta.

I’ve been in touch with the general manager of the property to organize the schedule, crew meals, transportation.

The hotel’s owner turns out to be Martin Bernard, a retired actor and hundred millionaire, who has brought in many notable celebrity and CEO investors. He will feature prominently in the story, of course. I am in touch with his publicist in advance since she won’t be on-site. She is deeply inscrutable, which is either for the sake of discretion or a symptom of being heavily medicated.

“Thank you so much for your help, Barbara,” I say. “Anything else I should know about Martin?”

There is a long pause.

“Hello?”

“Yes, that’s it, darling.” Everything out of her mouth sounds screen-siren breathy, like she’s lying in silk sheets from dawn till dusk.

I connect with Charlie, the photographer, and Peter, the cameraman. I try to nail down logistics with Stephanie, who has conceived this whole spread and will be writing the accompanying story, but mostly she wants to know whether I like Aperol spritzes and am open to powder drugs in the era of fentanyl. The answer is: a lot. And not at all.

I’m spending copious time in a giant Dropbox folder, scouring scouting images of the hotel itself. And it is spectacular. Escape porn at its best. The first time I look at them, I literally gasp, covering my mouth with my hand. I get to go here?

Infinity pools with sharp edges blink in the sunlight before collapsing into the ocean’s waiting arms. Rustic, yet immaculate, barn buildings radiate zen in a rainbow of muted neutrals. Who knew there were so many shades of sandstone? Organic vegetable gardens are laid out in perfect geometric lines. In communal spaces, handwoven pillows and blankets—created by a local women’s collective—offer pops of color, walking a fine line, but ultimately leaning chic. The spa building could double as a Goop store.

I’m excited and nervous. And Wednesday arrives too slow and too fast.

The kids have continued to celebrate their extended sleepover with Henry, creating a list on lined notebook paper about what they’re looking forward to most. Bart wants to play tag in their brownstone backyard; Nettie wants to compare Pokémon cards. Apparently, Jamie’s famous butter popcorn tops the list too—though Bart only refers to him as “Henry’s dad.” (The kids are crossing their fingers for a weekday movie night.)

But when I put Bart to bed on Tuesday night, his resolve wavers.

“Mommy,” he says. “Who will give us dinner?”

“Celeste and Jamie, Bonk.”

“How will they know what we like?”

“Well, I’ve told them. And you can tell them too. And, if you need, you know Nettie will help you.”

He considers this for a moment. “Who will give us breakfast?”

“Cutie, Celeste and Jamie will. They’ll give you all your meals and snacks. And I’m actually going to the grocery store after drop-off at school tomorrow morning to get some of your favorite things and bring them over to Henry’s house.”

“You’ll get Cheerios? And Crispix?”

“I will.”

He grins, rubbing his eyes with his fists. Sleepy. I know he’s only minutes from dropping off to dreamland. “Yay! I love Cheerios.”

“I know you do, cutie. And I love you !”

I push myself to standing.

“Mommy, you’ll be home by Halloween?” Bart asks.

Nettie has asked me this multiple times too. Halloween is a big deal in our house. And I’m set to get home the night before, which gives me just enough time to prep everyone’s costumes the next day and head out to trick-or-treating.

“Yes! I would not miss Halloween with you for the world.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to… yes, promise.”

I bend back down and give him kisses on his cheeks and head and belly until he giggles and wriggles. He smells like apples and milk. He is scrumptious. I think we’re good—at least I hope we are. As I stand up and begin to pull the door closed behind me, he says, “Mommy, why do you deserve this?”

I pause in the doorway. “What?”

“Nettie said that. ‘You deserve this.’ What does deserve mean?”

Sometimes I forget he is so young.

“ Deserve means that you’ve earned something.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Actually, it depends. It can be either.”

“Did Nettie mean it in a good or bad way?”

“A good one, cutie. She was being kind to me. She was saying I’ve earned a fun trip. For me.”

Bart thinks about this for a moment. “I think Nettie is right,” he says, turning on his side and cuddling his Elmo stuffy close. “You’re the best mommy.”

The words settle over me like snowflakes. I close the door softly before I burst into tears.

On our way to drop-off in a cold drizzle, I know we’re late because Redhead Mom’s dog is leading the charge. And even he looks stressed. She is attempting to carry an umbrella and push a stroller at the same time, which I know from experience to be an impossibility. Her youngest child is in a bubble gum–pink raincoat with a face to match. She is wailing at top volume in the carriage.

Nettie sees what I see and knows what it means. She gasps. “Mom, I don’t want to be late!” she says, speed walking ahead. This is not how I wanted to say goodbye to my kids.

I am able to hug and kiss both of them before rushing them off into the recesses of the school. I take that as a win. And when they disappear and I look up and down the sidewalk, there are almost no parents to be seen. It’s deserted as if drop-off never happened. Even the usual procrastination crew who lingers on the corner has disbanded.

I head quickly to the supermarket before I plan to return home, close my suitcase and leave for the airport. Inside, it’s a cozy refuge from the storm, the dim lights and familiar stock of past-due produce, a hug.

My phone rings and I fumble for it, stuffing old-school earbuds (with wires) into my ears and repeating “hello” fifty times like I’ve lost my hold on reality. I’ve given up on the wireless ones. They always fall out. Celeste says I have abnormally small ear canals. I think everyone else has abnormally large ones.

Of course, it is my mom. Of course, on FaceTime. I tuck myself in a corner by the cold beverages.

“Mom, hi.”

She’s calling me from bed this time. Maybe she has just woken up, which is odd because she is generally an early riser. She’s leaning back against patterned pillows. It’s not a flattering angle—chin foremost.

“Hi!” she says. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

She narrows her eyes. “You look weird.”

“You should talk.”

“What?”

“Nothing, Mom.” I slip my raincoat’s hood off. “I love being told I look weird before nine a.m.”

“Sorry.” She shrugs, not sorry.

I give myself the once-over in the FaceTime window. My hair is a little worse for wear, but everything else appears to be in place. I always thought I looked cute in this coat. It’s army green and so are my eyes. But… maybe not.

“I’m at the supermarket”—I sigh—“grabbing some last-minute items before I leave for the airport.”

“The airport?!” my mother says, furrowing her brow. “Where are you going?”

This is a surprising question for multiple reasons: (1) She knows I’m going away because I asked my parents to watch the kids before I discovered they were busy. (2) We have discussed my trip multiple times, including when we debated the name of that one sunblock we both like that doesn’t clog our pores and when she told me that taking care of myself doesn’t make me a bad parent. (3) Five seconds ago, I assumed she was calling to wish me safe travels.

“Mom,” I say, trying not to panic. “I’m going to that private island in Turks and Caicos, remember? For the magazine shoot?”

“Oh, right,” she says in a tone that is not at all convincing. I try to ignore the worry strumming though me.

“Why are you still in bed? Is your neck bothering you again?”

“No. Just a lazy morning. Actually, my neck has been feeling way better ever since I started taking this new medication. Thank God Carol recommended her doctor.”

“Oh, great. I’m so glad!”

Not that I’m not enjoying the chitchat, but my local supermarket has narrow aisles and I’ve already had to smoosh myself against the chilly shelving twice to let people pass through to the apples, potatoes and tomatoes.

“So…,” I say, inspecting and rejecting a container of overpriced blackberries as I weave my way past bruised kiwis. I stop to contemplate the cotton candy grapes, then decide they’re triggering. Cotton candy. Too soon.

“So…”

“Mom, not to rush off, but did you call for a specific reason?”

“Hmm. Good question. I can’t remember!”

I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. It’s going to be okay.

“Oh,” I say, trying to modulate my voice to an approximation of normal. “Well, I’m not leaving for a couple of hours. I’m around if it comes back to you.”

I slip into the cereal aisle. I grab a box of Cheerios from the bottom shelf, then start scanning for Crispix.

“Ron, why did I call again?” my mother is asking my father.

“Dad is there?” I say. That man is always hiding in plain sight.

I glance down at the phone, as she lets it tilt to the side. There is my dad, lying beside her in his reading glasses.

I’m so distracted that I manage to get my earbud cord tangled on the buckle of my bag strap. My free hand is holding a shopping basket, so I can’t tug it off. So I am contorted into some bizarre yogic pose, trying to yank myself loose, when another customer behind me clears his throat, hoping to get through. My supermarket. Again, with the world’s narrowest aisles.

“Sorry, sorry,” I say, as I whirl around and flatten myself against the shelves. I look up and find myself face-to-face with Demon Dad. Of course. I’ve only seen him in passing since Monster’s Ball, though I’m unsettled by how often he’s been popping up in my head. Now, his face is just inches from mine. His hair is damp. He clearly got caught in the downpour without an umbrella. And, in the most annoying way, wet looks really good on him. My chest flutters.

“You’re wet,” I say like a full moron.

“Wet?” says my mom. “Why, wet?”

Right. I’m on the phone with my parents.

He is on a call too. “Yes,” he says to the person on the other end, adjusting his AirPods. “That makes sense.” He nods hello to me. Shrugs that he is, indeed, wet.

Mortified, I move to let him pass, but he gestures toward the shelves like he is also shopping for cereal. I have no choice but to turn around and stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him while I continue looking for Crispix.

I finally spot the cereal. Of course it’s on the highest shelf. Way out of reach. Kind of like my self-respect.

“I have no idea why you called Sasha,” my dad says to my mom as I stand on tiptoe, pretending like that extra inch is going to make up for the footlong deficit between me and that blue box.

An arm appears above my head. I watch as a strong hand plucks the box effortlessly from its resting place.

“That’s fine as long as we’re not compromising our vision to appease him,” Ethan is saying as he hands me the Crispix, which was a benign breakfast product seconds ago and now feels radioactive.

“Who’s that I hear?” my mom says. “Is that Celeste?”

“That’s a man, not Celeste!” my dad says.

“She’s very tall,” counters my mom.

“So she sounds like a man?”

Ethan gives me a thumbs-up. I guess I look confused because he mutes his call and says, “That’s the goods.” He is talking about the Crispix.

I nod. “It’s in regular rotation,” I mouth. I have no idea if he understands.

I suddenly have a sensation like I’ve fallen through a wormhole into a silent movie. Only there are no captions and I can’t follow the thread.

“It’s for Bart,” I whisper. “I’m going out of town.” This makes no sense without context, which I assume is why he looks at me with legitimate confusion. But there’s no time to find out what he’s thinking. Because there are at least four conversations happening at once. Possibly five. And my cord is now caught on my sleeve. And the aisle is so narrow that I’m practically pressed up against Ethan’s damp chest. And I’m starting to seriously overheat. And I can’t stop staring at a drop of rain that is trailing its way down his neck.

I’m suddenly thirsty.

So I do the only thing I can. I salute him. Salute him? Then back down the aisle a few steps and turn to walk away, cheeks blazing.

“You know what, sweetie?” my mom says. “We should go. This isn’t a good time for us to talk. We’ve got to start our day.”

“Mom. You called me!”

“Did I? I don’t think so.”

I suppress rising panic—and put a pin in it until I get home.